Darkness Coming
by Masterdramon
Summary: Four bounty hunters, caught within the inescapable grasp of a creeping, corrosive poison. Bereft and alone, Rundas, Ghor, Gandrayda, and Samus Aran all struggle to deal with the burgeoning corruption surging through their bodies. Four-part miniseries.
1. Part I: Rundas

**Darkness Coming – Rundas**

_Disclaimer: In case you haven't figured it out yet, I don't own Metroid Prime 3. All Metroid-related characters, settings, etc. are the intellectual property of Makoto Kano and Nintendo._

[-]

Strictly on the surface, the notion of Rundas feeling cold was patently ludicrous.

Hailing from the ice-moon Phrygis meant acclimating to temperatures several hundred degrees below galactic zero from birth; snow and frost were simply the Phrygisian way of life, even in the midst of the summer cycles. And indeed, even amongst his own people Rundas' physiology was exceptionally well-adjusted to the glacial atmosphere, his natural cryokinetic abilities having been graded at the highest possible level upon his graduation from the L'ad Conservatory several decacycles ago. Whether training his body and reflexes out in the frozen wastelands or sustaining his salary with part-time heavy labor in the Phrygisian ice mines, the absolute last thing he would ever choose to complain about was the frigidity of the surrounding climate.

So why was it – clattering around the boiling planet of _Bryyo_ no less – that he was so frequently being moved to shivering these days?

Admittedly, the coldness that Rundas was experiencing was not a physical one…but then it did not appear to be either a mental or an emotion one at that, so far as he could tell. No, by all objective markers, the Phrygisian bounty hunter was in peak condition on all possible levels…and yet the presence of the foreign sensation was undeniable, even as its source utterly eluded him.

There were clues, of course – this clammy, depressing feeling tended to come-and-go with the waning and waxing of battle, a prospect that came up disturbingly often on a planet seemingly Hell-bent on brutally slaughtering him. The native Reptilicus were wild and frenetic, either unable or unwilling to speak as they attacked Rundas on-sight in roving packs. Distasteful as it was for the hunter to terminate potentially sentient life-forms, the creatures weren't really providing him with much of a choice, and the ease and efficiency of his newly acquired Phazon Enhancement Device continued to make such short work of the swarms that it almost seemed _wasteful_ not to take advantage of it.

The P.E.D.…perhaps that was all there truly was to the issue? After all, Rundas had never before had such a thing literally _implanted_ into his body, and the Federation scientists had warned that there might be some unforeseen side-effects stemming from this apparently benign flow of Phazon his body was now rather insistently generating. And if that was the case, a little bit of disorientation hardly seemed too steep a price to pay for the significant boost it was providing to his combat capabilities.

…Still, the lack of concern or restraint that he was increasingly meeting the Reptilicus with by instinct was beginning to seriously disturb him – with his well of energy continuously self-refilling, entering Hyper Mode to dispatch the hostiles with extreme prejudice was progressively becoming the rule, rather than the exception. But feeling the unbridled power flowing freely through him felt _good_, and meant alleviation from the oppressive emotional frost for at least a decent hour or so. The price was not great, and the advantages were nearly limitless…to the point where Rundas was now being sorely tempted, should he be able to figure out how, to disable the vent system in his P.E.D. and just spend a good couple of days locked into the Phazon-fuelled nirvana. What could be the harm, really?

[-]

Rundas' first indication that he had overlooked some rather significant flaws in this prospective idea came during a reconnaissance sweep of Bryyo Fire – there were Pirates swarming across this particular corner of the resource-rich planet, quite apart from the already bountiful array of deadly _local_ fauna, and it couldn't hurt to get a better idea of exactly how well-entrenched their current presence was. As such, the Phrygisian was more than a little on-edge by the time he reached a secluded chamber of what appeared to be an abandoned temple, and found himself face-to-face with the most unusual Reptilicus he had ever seen.

From what little Rundas knew of Bryyonian biology – which wasn't exactly much – this creature appeared to be female, and exceedingly aged. And unlike her naked brethren, whatever tribal clothes they might once have worn before the onset of Phazon Sickness having degenerated into simple masks of bone, this Reptilicus was adorned with ornate and flowing robes, albeit ones that were evidently a few decacycles past their prime. But easily the most unnerving details of all were this creature's _eyes_.

The organs were chalk-white and milky, glazed over in a distant stare that suggested that this female was almost certainly blind…and yet, the manner with which she was currently regarding Rundas gave him the distinct – and uncomfortable – feeling that this was utterly immaterial to her ability to perceive his location.

Now she was muttering something in some ancient, inscrutable language, one with slurred pronunciation and a great many guttural tones, and a moment later his Galactic Federation translator module returned the sounds as, "Finally you have come forth, Ice-Bringer. I knew that it was only a matter of time."

"Who are you?" Rundas breathed, unsure of how to proceed. There was something implacably upsetting about this creature's utter stillness…not to mention the fact that she seemed to be claiming to have _expected_ him.

"I am Ban-Fhaidh, last prophetess of the ancient lineage of Bryyo," she declared, still not moving from her meditative stance. "I had foreseen the starborne death of my people eons before its descent, and in the days since I have been ensconced away, able to do naught but idly observe as the once-great Reptilicus decay into madness from the poison that now runs through their veins. You know of this poison, do you not? You too carry its essence all about you, Ice-Bringer."

"Do you…mean the Phazon?" Rundas asked carefully, unconsciously taking a step back. "What do you know about it?"

"I knew that it would arrive within my lifetime…knew ever since I was but a hatchling, dreaming haunting visions of formless shadows and living death," Ban-Fhaidh told him, giving no particular indication whether she was answering his question or merely continuing to ramble. Her tones were so distant, and so despondent, that it was quite impossible to tell. "My mentor, the last and wisest of our world's antediluvian Lords of Science, devoted the last epoch of his miserable life to preparing these lands for the coming corruption…but of course, he failed. Destiny's hand is unyielding."

Rundas lifted his head to say something to this grave pronouncement, but found his roster of possible responses to be quite lacking. They were talking past each other to the degree that were the prophetess not staring directly at him with those blank, murky patches of white, Rundas would've sworn that she wasn't even aware that he was standing here to begin with.

"…But I sense that not all hope is yet lost," she said after a long pause, a strange sort of power blazing deep within her eyes as she did. "She who brought light to the barren wastes of the Chozo and the shadowed lands of the Luminoth…she who is someday fated to bring this galaxy to a final and lasting peace…her approach is nigh. She is coming. _She is coming._"

One keyword in all of this prophetic babble – "Luminoth" – jumped out at Rundas, and recalling the briefings he had received on his prospective teammates immediately preceding the call to Norion, the bounty hunter demanded, "Are you talking about Samus Aran? Samus Aran is coming _here?_ When? _Why?_ Give me a straight answer, dammit!"

But she would not; enveloped completely in whatever eclectic visions were currently overtaking her mind, all Ban-Fhaidh seemed either able or willing to say was the repeated declaration that "she" was coming. Frustrated and growing entirely impatient with this enigmatic diviner, Rundas growled angrily and stuck a claw in her face, already feeling the temperature within it dropping several hundred degrees as his cryokinetic powers began to charge to their fullest extent. "Stop blathering, lizard!" he roared in a voice that did not sound like it entirely belonged to him. "You know more than you're letting on about Phazon, about Samus, whatever…just tell it to me already! I'm _not_ going to ask _again!_"

"She shall bring death to you, Ice-Bringer," the prophetess stated suddenly, her tone as dispassionate and ethereal as ever.

"_What?_" Rundas hissed, Hyper Mode apparently flaring up of its own volition at this literal death-sentence. "Explain yourself!"

"You have fought the poison for longer than most – even your compatriots of steel and formless matter have fallen completely under its sway while you continue to resist – but it is inevitable that you shall eventually give in," she intoned, apparently unfazed by the clear and present threat to her life. "Even now, it has become a crutch for you to rely on in these harsh and deathly lands. The corrosive power of the poison is irresistible…and it is only a short matter of time before it shall compel you to strike against she who shall save us all. She is coming, Ice-Bringer. She is coming. She is coming. _She is…_"

The point-blank blast came utterly unbidden by any conscious thought on Rundas' part, and that was the part that frightened him the most. As inexplicably furious as he was at the unfathomable prophetess, he had been possessed of no true inclination to actually fire upon her…much less go straight for the kill. But here he was, standing over the flash-frozen, mutilated corpse of the only sapient being he had conversed with in weeks, Phazon tendrils whipping and lapping around as his P.E.D. flashed warning signs.

"I…I need to get this thing off…" he muttered in a panic, respiring profusely as he fumbled with the Federation hardware and attempted to wrench it straight out of his skin, damned be the consequences. Above all, Rundas prided himself on his independence, and what he had just experienced was incontrovertible proof that there were some actions his body was capable of taking that he had absolutely no choice over. As intoxicating as the regular expulsion of Phazon was turning out to be, there was absolutely no way that _this_ price was worth it. Rundas, scion of Phrygis, was a bounty hunter…_not_ a murderer.

But the moment that Rundas tugged at the device, an overwhelming flash of pain shot through his entire body, and within seconds the mighty hunter was on his back crying in agony, screeching gutturally as the strands of Phazon emanating from within his very core grew longer and bolder. His vision and overall sense of perception rapidly dwindling as he began to lose control of his extremities, the small part of Rundas' mind still capable of rational thought struggled valiantly to reach the emergency vent switch on the Phazon Enhancement Device, but it was no use; writhing and howling anguished pleas for help from the Reptilicus or Samus or one of Phrygis' supposed deities or _someone_ appeared to be the absolute most he could muster at the current time.

But surprisingly, a voice _did_ answer his tortured entreaties…although not one that Rundas had either been expecting or welcoming. At first the voice merely chose to laugh at his suffering, echoing low and cold across some distant corner of his brain. But soon enough it was forming whispered words, words of cruelty and sadistic malice that overtook Rundas' mind completely as the Phazon tendrils continued to similarly overtake his body.

_You thought it would be _that_ easy to simply walk away from my power, slave? Do not forget that I bestowed upon you and your friends a gift…Commander Ghor and Mistress Gandrayda have not, after all. And now, my child…my _seed_…now it is finally time for you to join them._

Against Rundas' will – for it was still wholly occupied with the mind-splitting pain currently wreaking havoc on his psyche – the bounty hunter climbed to his feet, every molecule of muscle and sinew now held firmly within the grip of the pulsing Phazon energy. Slowly, laboriously, Rundas was wrenched forward by one foot and then the other, some strange force connected with the disembodied, cackling voice compelling him to proceed down a path he had not yet fully explored. Coming to a large stone door he felt his arm raise and another frigid blast of Phazon-laden ice impact the energy shielding, allowing Rundas' unresponsive body to continue pulling him into a room that carried with it an eerie, sinister glow.

The source of the luminosity became clear almost immediately – a massive pool of pure, liquid Phazon lay sequestered within this chamber, bubbling and sizzling as its azure aura stretched in all directions, silently commanding Rundas to take just a few more steps forward and immerse himself within its radiating bounty.

"No…" Rundas coughed, vainly attempting to pull his limbs back and fight off the voice now viciously ordering him to take the plunge. "No…not like _this_…"

But it was no use; disobedience was a luxury he would no longer be afforded. Another step and the dive was finally complete, his entire body submerging itself into the churning liquid as it hissed and flowed about him, injecting itself into the P.E.D. and into his very veins.

For the first and last time in his life, Rundas fully and truly felt what it was like to nearly freeze to death, and as the vague prospect of what he imagined hypothermia must be like loomed, the Phrygisian sunk deep into an impenetrable blackness.

[-]

Well, Ban-Fhaidh had been right about at least one thing: Samus Aran had touched down upon the planet only about two days later, her armor gleaming with the unmistakable mark of her very own Phazon Enhancement Device. But there was little opportunity for Rundas to warn her of the very present dangers that the toxic machine represented, given…recent events.

Rundas had never been a particularly sociable creature, but insofar as he considered himself to have any friends at all, Samus certainly qualified. He genuinely liked her – not like _that_, of course, although he wouldn't necessarily preclude the possibility _somewhere_ long down the road – and admired her for her strength and dedication. Plus, her unceasing optimism (a rarity in this line of business if there ever was one) was always refreshing to behold; the line he had parroted back to her on Norion about "justice prevailing and all that stuff" had come from her on _some_ previous mission they had embarked on together, though he couldn't immediately place which. There had been Pirates involved, he was almost certain of that…but there had been so many over the last handful of cycles that they tended to blend together fairly seamlessly.

As such, when the burgeoning corruption that was now totally in control of Rundas' brain and body began forcing him to track down and then attack Samus with the full intention to kill, the small portion of Rundas' true mind that still remained was…displeased.

Understatement-of-the-centacycle aside, Rundas was screaming bloody murder from within the Phazon-laden cage that was his own heart, but fighting was no longer an option for him – Dark Samus was pulling his strings from afar with nary but a small fraction of her ever-expanding power. Yes, he had finally discerned the true source of that malefic voice tempting him into madness, not that that knowledge was doing him any particular good…

Fortunately, Samus appeared to be winning their mortal duel for the moment, though not without a steep cost; the snatches of her soft, hominid face he had managed to glean through her verdant visor revealed a woman who was feeling painfully conflicted about fighting her longtime ally to the death, particularly as his constantly escalating assault forced her hand in activating her own version of Hyper Mode, blasting apart the pieces of Rundas' crystalline armor with concentrated surges of pure Phazon.

But eventually, inevitably, the battle ceased, with a barely breathing Rundas lying defeated at his friend's metallic feet, energy crackling throughout his bruised and battered P.E.D. armor as she gazed upon him with a mixture of contemplation, pity, and regret. But in her premature display of mourning, she was leaving open a critical opening in her defenses – her weapon arm was not raised, and his readings indicated that her current energy levels were too low for her engage Hyper Mode again anytime soon – and the dark and malicious voice echoing throughout the frigid chambers of his mind was bidding him to take swift and lethal advantage of this fact.

_That's it, my child…make me proud…_

Once again Rundas felt the cold and unwelcome sensation of his arms rising up by themselves, his cryokinetic powers building to their maximum and targeting the momentarily still form of Samus Aran.

"Samus…" he murmured, soft and strained enough that he knew she would not hear.

And then, in an instant, the decision was both made and carried out. The life rapidly fading from his eyes, the bounty hunter Rundas lay impaled upon a spear of his own creation, the result of his last, most desperate effort to wrest back control of his ice-generating abilities from the usurping parasite now roaring furiously at the wasted opportunity. It may not have been ideal…but at least this way, Samus Aran would have a much better chance of living to see another day. With what both the prophetess and Dark Samus had said about their remaining compatriots, the blonde hominid was going to be needed by the galaxy again very soon, and very urgently.

And so it was that, as Dark Samus' wraithlike projection absorbed his life's essence into her own, irritably attempting to salvage _some_ use out of her first fallen lieutenant, Rundas cried out a silent plea of apology to the friend he had unwillingly betrayed, praying desperately that there might still be hope yet for his fellows still trapped within the throes of this sick corruption. Ghor, Gandrayda, and _especially_ Samus…he wished them all luck in achieving favor with the guiding hand of fate.

Then Rundas of Phrygis fell still, and the woman who had been closer to him in life than any other sapient being turned away from his dissipating body, unable to bear witness any longer as a single, uncommonly warm tear slid down her slender face.


	2. Part II: Ghor

**Darkness Coming – Ghor**

_Disclaimer: In case you haven't figured it out yet, I don't own Metroid Prime 3. All Metroid-related characters, settings, etc. are the intellectual property of Makoto Kano and Nintendo._

[-]

It was a necessary consequence of his present state of existence that Ghor would be rather used to dealing with sudden shifts in his personality and mindset, but _this_…was far beyond even that.

To have sixty-four percent of one's original body incinerated by the unforgiving potency of a plasma grenade, and to have another thirty amputated to make room for one of the Galactic Federation's first flirtations with full-body cyborg conversion, was an experience that full organics could never and _would_ never be able to truly understand.

It had been a strange feeling – not painful, per say, but utterly agonizing all the same in a way that Ghor's coolly logical mind had great trouble verbalizing. Perhaps it was simply basic instinct rebelling against such an extreme violation of his Wotani heritage, the sheer _invasiveness_ of the procedure…but of course, what the Federation higher-brass had demanded from him in compensation for his extreme "remodeling" had probably contributed to the messiness of the transition process as well.

Despite his general aptitude for it, Ghor had never really been one for violence; he was more of a scholarly sort by both nature and inclination, and had only joined the military upon reaching the age of majority because that was what was culturally expected of the youth of Wotan VII. A year spent at some desolate outpost in order to appease his family and his people's traditions, and he would have been able to go right back to university and the things he _truly_ valued…or at least, that's what he had intended. Alas, fate had had different plans.

The conflict that would come to be known as the Liberation War came swiftly and unexpectedly, as such things are wont to do – a separatist sect of the Wotani military had seized control of the capital in an overnight coup and instituted martial law, believing that alliance with the Federation had rendered the people of their system weak and lazy. Ghor, alongside a great many other soldiers of his generation, had disagreed vehemently, and despite heavy casualties had ultimately won back control for the exiled High Council.

But though he was discharged with highest honors and awarded numerous commendations for courage and valor, Ghor's body had been mutilated beyond all recognition by the experience, and agreeing to go under the knife for the Federation had ultimately meant mutilating his principles and convictions as well. For their principal condition in both administering and subsidizing the radical surgery was that Ghor use his newly acquired metallic shell alongside his already formidable mind for _their_ ends, taking on bounties offered up by Federation-affiliated governments all across the known galaxy and hunting those targets down…by any means necessary.

The life of a bounty hunter was a strange one, and not one that Ghor had ever really felt particularly suited for; his natural abhorrence for violence had been overcome during the Liberation War only because of his much stronger senses of justice and patriotism, and Federation work – for the most part, at least – lacked even that. When collecting bounties or carrying out other assorted mercenary assignments for the Federation military (his own natural…proclivities made him especially sought-after for missions involving computer interfacing and infiltration), knowing _why_ a particular being was a target beyond a sentence-long blurb detailing their principal charges was virtually unheard of.

No, Ghor was expected to be a good soldier, and by all objective parameters, he _was_…but that was entirely an outward affectation, and did not erase his internal unease.

Complicating this rather radical adjustment in his state of being had been the aforementioned "shifts in personality and mindset" – the largely unforeseen effect of the sheer adaptability of his new body, designed to easily interface with a variety of high-tech attachments and augmentations in order to aid him in his new line of work. With his central nervous system integrated fully and completely with the prosthetics that now encompassed virtually his entire physical body, plugging into any of these additional pieces of hardware produced an unwelcome two-way connection, affecting his very brain chemistry even as he bent the machine in question directly to his will.

The attachment he used for computer manipulation, for example, tended to render his already logic-prone mind into one utterly devoid of emotion, as coldly mechanical as his superficial appearance would generally suggest him to be to any who were not already familiar with his deeper nature. While this…adjustment was obviously quite advantageous to dealing with large amounts of hard data in a cool and dispassionate manner, it had also caused Ghor his fair share of grief over the years; he remembered ashamedly of the unfortunate incident where a female associate had made the error, while he was inserted into a Federation mainframe, of asking him "how she looked" shortly before departing for a romantic rendezvous. The bluntness of his response had sent her away in tears.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, the intricate apparatus into which Ghor connected himself in order to perform communications work – a necessity when sometimes working a full _galaxy_ apart from his commanding officers– required so much of his body's processing power that his higher mind became rather dense and sluggish. Quite embarrassingly, this meant that all of his transmissions to the Federation from any farther out than the Tallon system came through in a droning, rambling sort of voice that tended to diverge onto a variety of bizarre tangents, in much the same way that organics tended to sound when intoxicated on opiates or deliriants.

But easily the most radical shift came about whenever Ghor integrated his body with his armorsuit, a tank-like exoskeleton with advanced combat and interstellar-transport capabilities. With the collective weaponry of a dozen Federation battalions quite literally at his fingertips of steel, Ghor was now eminently aware that the sheer power brought both the best and the worst out of his base personality, rendering him hyper-aggressive and perpetually spoiling for a fight. That he could change so drastically simply by entering what was now functionally his gunship scared the cyborg deeply, and it was not infrequently that Ghor wondered whether the trade-off had necessarily been worth it…

But of course, that was nothing compared to this _new_ shift, the one which had set off this train of perplexing philosophizing in the first place. Compared to the fairly abrupt way in which cerebral interfacing with some other device or intelligence tended to affect change to his mood and personality, he had observed this latest alteration to be growing at a far more gradual rate, but with its deeper effects on his psyche _that_ much more potent and insidious to compensate.

Ghor had begun to notice this mental transformation – almost _elegant_ in the degree of its subtlety – shortly after touching down upon the research center known as SkyTown, high above the swirling mists and tumultuous storms that marked the gas giant Elysia. The mechanical Elysians, who saw him as something of a kindred spirit and had eagerly granted him free reign to the entire facility, were slowly but surely beginning to radiate what his organic mind was reading as intense hostility toward him…and yet his sensors, which were far less vulnerable to outside influence, detected nothing of the sort.

No, this building paranoia was the work of some sort of foreign agent…and it didn't take an Omega-level intellect to identify the culprit.

Ghor had been…ambivalent, to say the least, about the Federation's "solution" to the insertion and subsequent exponential growth of the radioactive mutagen known as Phazon within the bodies of Ghor, Rundas, Gandrayda, and Samus Aran, perpetrated by the latter's darkly hued counterpart during the battle on Norion. Reliable data on the threat level and potential side-effects of prolonged Phazon exposure – much less autonomous Phazon _generation_ – was incredibly sparse, and his previous experiences with rushed Federation technology (the machinery that made up his artificial "nervous system," in particular, was at best a few months old at the time of his operation) hadn't exactly been stellar.

If the Phazon Enhancement Device was to be anything like the other "attachments" he had received from the Federation scientists to his cybernetic shell, Ghor felt that he could count on only two things: that it would perform its intended function with perfect efficiency, and that it would _also_ do a great many other things to his partially robotic psyche that were neither planned nor welcome. And, lo and behold…it looked like that projection was coming entirely to fruition.

The days were growing unbearable now, slowly working his way past corrupted Elysians in an effort to administer the Federation's vaccine to Aurora Unit 217 and free the entire SkyTown network from the Space Pirates' debilitating virus. Ghor was finding it immensely difficult to tear through the rather massive mechanical armies – particularly a wide battalion of steel monstrosities his databanks termed "Steamlords," which were capable of repairing their fallen brethren even in the midst of battle – without engaging his newly acquired "Hyper Mode" with fair regularity, and yet his sensors indicated with indisputable certainty that doing so was precisely what was degrading his mind.

Degrading…yes, that was an apt term. Ghor considered himself a creature of intellect, and of peace in all but the most dire of circumstances, but as the Phazon levels in his body grew he began to gain a progressively less deniable _thrill_ out of reducing the previously sentient Elysians into flaming piles of scrap-metal. Any of these robots might as well have been _him_ at one point, a high-minded soul imprinted upon a frame of copper and silicon, and yet when Ghor cut through one after the other with the blazing heat of his Phazon-enhanced Plasma Beam, he was horrified to find that his first instinct was now…to _laugh_.

Madness was now beginning to take full root within Ghor's once-collected mind; of that at least, he was sure. Every corner he turned within this aged and decrepit station presented a new flash of fear and paranoia, of untraceable fury and an inexplicable desire to combine with his armorsuit permanently and lay waste to this entire facility in one fell swoop.

And the voices – oh Great Īśara, the _voices!_ A general "aura" of static was to be expected in such close proximity to all these other machines, that much was true…but _nothing_ could have ever prepared Ghor for the sheer cacophony shrieking throughout his mind ever-so-often as he ventured across SkyTown's desolate halls. Whispers, threats, the occasional burst of cold and cruel mirth from some unseen source; Ghor guessed that these were the results of the Pirates' virus, which appeared to be at least mildly biomechanical in nature so as to effectively overcome the Auroras, attempting to remotely hack into his systems and slave the hunter to their will.

But Ghor, scion of Wotan VII, would _not_ be trifled with so easily; never! No, he would take back the entirety of this research center for the remaining Elysians, and slaughter any wretched Pirate scum that got in his way! Rip them, _tear_ them, blow them all into little pieces and feed their remains to the miasmic abyss below…

_Yes, that would be a good idea. _Such_ a good idea. But you would succeed at it better if you were in Hyper Mode for longer periods of time, would you not? Then not one single Pirate or Elysian could stand against you, _ever…

"Hmm…that's right, isn't it?" Ghor mused to himself, only semi-consciously beginning to fiddle with his P.E.D.'s automatic vent system and override the cumbersome timing mechanism. "No one could stop me from…from…"

Then Ghor's arms snapped away from the device implanted into his chest, stumbling backward as his optical sensors unfocused and then refocused in abject horror.

"I am…uncertain of who speaks, but know this: I shall not be your puppet!" Ghor shouted to the empty chambers, echoing throughout the station in a manner that emphasized just how isolated the cyborg actually was. "These thoughts are not my own…these _impulses_ are not my own! I _can_ win back SkyTown in my own way; I do not need this toxic crutch!"

_You believe that, do you? No…you _need_ this power. Not one being in this vast Universe can fully turn away from the allure of Phazon after tasting its infinite bounty. The sooner you give in and surrender to the energy that flows through your circuits like blood, my dear child, the sooner you shall be rid of this torturous mission. Yield, Ghor…yield to the corruption. For soon, _everything_ will be corrupted…even you._

"Your statement lacks logic, Dark Samus," Ghor declared, clutching the arm containing his Plasma Beam as streams of Phazon within it began to surge painfully. "And oh yes, I have indeed now deduced your identity, disembodied voice of temptation and vice…but your 'tricks' will not work on _my_ mind, aberration. I am an integration of the greatest of organic and inorganic engineering, and cannot be led astray by your rather transparent attempts at manipulation."

_Oh? And all this coming from a being of manmade steel, frightened to death by the aftereffects of his very own systems. Your "mind," such as it is, is no longer static…no, my child, it is as fluid as any other computer program, and can be altered _just_ as easily. You think that interfacing with your armorsuit distorts your personality? That is _nothing_ compared to the power I bestowed upon you and your…friends. Soon enough, you won't even _want_ to resist its pull._

"Then why speak to me at all?" Ghor couldn't help himself asking. "Why not just let the Phazon run its natural course, if its ascendance is as inevitable as you seem to claim?"

_Time. Eventually, inescapably, you _will_ release your insignificant will into the collective that is Phaaze, but I grow impatient with our progress on the SkyTown station. The last of the resistant Elysians must be eliminated, and Aurora Unit 217's connections to the remainder of the center must be severed, in the unlikely eventuality that the vaccine you now hold is somehow administered. Through my disciples' wonderful virus, I have hundreds of agents swarming all across that wretched planet, but none are the equal of you, Ghor. So go on, my child…do what you were meant to do. Cease fighting my glorious gift of corruption and become my General – my herald._

"And if I refuse?" Ghor demanded, before screeching out as immeasurable pain wracked his metallic body, small panels now flying off as Phazon tendrils lashed out of a series of small leaks in his P.E.D.

_Then your conversion shall be _that_ much more painful. There is no escaping the grasp I now hold upon your mind, body, and soul…only a very, _very_ slight delaying of the inevitable, and a myriad of additional agony and suffering should you unwisely choose the path of resistance. Just ask your friend Rundas…_

"What…what have you done to him?" Ghor yelled out, sounding uncharacteristically shrill and distressed. "Speak now!"

_I have done nothing to the being you call Rundas. He joined my cause entirely of his own volition…albeit only after his stubbornness nearly brought about his swift and agonizing death. But through this unfortunate but necessary pain, your fellow hunter saw the proverbial light and offered himself up to his grander destiny…as shall you, Ghor. Know this, my child: should Rundas fail to eliminate the soon-to-be-roused Samus Aran and her filthy Federation allies on Bryyo, the task shall fall to you, and you _will_ succeed. And know further that this is neither a request nor a demand; it is prophecy, of the fate that awaits you for the remainder of your natural life. Whether or not you choose to accept this fact no longer really matters…for the choice no longer rests with you._

By the time that these vile whispers had ceased, Ghor was already being seized by, bar-none, the worst pain he had _ever_ experienced, even exceeding that of the plasma grenade which had robbed him of his original body all those years ago. It was as if someone was taking a cleaver to the small portion of organic material left within him, the remainder of his systems attempting to counteract this excruciating anguish but being utterly overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of the Phazon residue all throughout his body rebelling against its host with violent abandon. Ghor's world was briefly nothing but visions of all-consuming azure…and then his hardware gave out, and the cyborg fell into the throes of a full system shutdown.

"No…not here…not _now_…" Ghor mouthed, but his mental processes were already grinding to a halt, and all that actually escaped from his mechanical maw was a desperate, gasping hiss.

[-]

_System reboot in progress._

_Loading personality files "Ghor-PE"…completed._

_Loading memory files "Ghor-ME"…completed._

_Loading combat files "Ghor-CO"…completed._

_Loading vocal files "Ghor-VO"…completed._

_Loading mobility files "Ghor-MO"…error. Unable to load "Ghor-MO."_

_Running diagnostic tests. Status: Clear._

_Running security scan. Status: Clear._

_Running biohazard scan. Status: Corrupted._

_Phazon Corruption Levels: 95%._

_Engaging all loaded files._

_Subject "Ghor-1" reactivating at 47% efficiency._

There was naught but static, its chaotic clamor dominating both Ghor's visual and auditory sensors as they very slowly came back online. The first thing the bounty hunter noticed as they did so, however, was that he was most assuredly _not_ in the hallways of SkyTown any longer; now he was in some sort of secluded laboratory, strapped tight to a gurney and being looked over by a trio of Steamlords.

"Urgh…explain why you have done this to me, immediately!" Ghor demanded, struggling violently against his restraints to little success. Somehow, even basic motor skills seemed to be eluding the Wotani native in this state of partial-consciousness.

The Steamlords' faces, almost spectral in their luminosity, peered down upon their captive with a mixture of bemusement, cold detachment, and something else that looked almost like…pity. After several more moments of this mystifying glance, one of them began to speak, making a series of clicking noises that only a fellow mechanoid would possibly have had _any_ hope of decoding, even with a Federation translator module handy.

"You are…damaged, brother," it stated simply, now tapping its rusted fingers across particular portions of Ghor's P.E.D. "We simply wish to repair you."

"What, exactly, do you mean by the term 'damaged'?" questioned Ghor, his optical sensors narrowing in anxious suspicion.

"We Elysians were once like you – disparate entities, disconnected from our fellows and drifting alone across the formless time and space of what humanoids call 'dreams,'" the Steamlord described. "That was, until we were reawakened through our link with the Galactic Federation's Aurora Unit, and enlightened by the glorious vision of our new mistress, Dark Samus of Phaaze. We, the machines granted souls by the long-forgotten Chozo race, experience a perpetual state of bliss in her service, connected in one great mind that is sustained by the bountiful Phazon flooding this land…and now, we shall bestow upon you the same gift. Fret not, oh lost and forlorn android…very soon, all your problems shall be assuaged. All are at peace in the embrace of Phazon."

"_No!_ You don't understand!" Ghor bellowed, now straining his unresponsive body even further as another of the Steamlords began to unscrew the glass dome covering his organic brain. "I am not like you, Elysians…I am a flesh-and-blood being from the Wotan system, my mind transplanted into this cyborg body to sustain my biological processes. I cannot, and _will_ not, assimilate into your enslaved hive!"

"On the contrary, General Ghor…we understand completely," said the last of the Steamlords, his clicks echoing low and with enough authority to convince the bounty hunter that this was the trio's de-facto leader. "You are far more fortunate than we, for as total inorganics, we can only ever hope to experience the magnificence of Phazon secondhand, through the liberating touch it brings upon our biological masters. But our scans indicate that _your_ organic components are already in the last throes of absorption into Phaaze's bounty; only a few minor glitches in your Federation-designed hardware are impeding this miracle from reaching its fulfillment. Dark Samus herself has decreed that you shall be our leader upon this world…and as soon as we have repaired these glitches, that honor shall finally be yours."

And with those words the dome finally detached, fingers of rusted steel poking and prodding around the wires that connected the natural to the artificial within Ghor's skull. The Wotani cyborg attempted to protest further but failed to summon up words; his speech programs appeared to have been halted by this forced exposure, leaving Ghor little more than a prisoner within his own unmoving body as the Steamlords set about reprogramming particular portions of his systems.

One-by-one, the failsafes the Federation had implanted to prevent their "handiwork" from being usurped by a foreign party shut down, and in a correspondingly rapid progression the low, cold laughter echoing within his brain grew stronger, Dark Samus celebrating sadistically as yet another warrior fell under her malefic sway. Ghor was unable to pull up any more up-to-date biohazard scans to mark the Phazon's ascendance within both his nerves and his circuits, but that hardly made much of a difference; he knew what they would say. The corruption was rising steadily, feeding, consuming, _obliterating_…

For the second time in so many millicycles, Ghor of Wotan VII fell into the closest approximation of unconsciousness he was currently capable of experiencing…but unlike before, this time, he would not be afforded the luxury of waking up.

[-]

_System reboot in progress._

_Loading personality files "Ghor-PE"…error. Unable to load "Ghor-PE." Loading backup files "Ghor-PH-PE"…completed._

_Loading memory files "Ghor-ME"…error. Unable to load "Ghor-ME." Loading backup files "Ghor-PH-ME"…completed._

_Loading combat files "Ghor-CO"…error. Unable to load "Ghor-CO." Loading backup files "Ghor-PH-CO"…completed._

_Loading vocal files "Ghor-VO"…error. Unable to load "Ghor-VO." Loading backup files "Ghor-PH-VO"…completed._

_Loading mobility files "Ghor-MO"…error. Unable to load "Ghor-MO." Loading backup files "Ghor-PH-MO"…completed._

_Running diagnostic tests. Status: Clear._

_Running security scan. Status: Clear._

_Running biohazard scan. Status: Clear._

_Phazon Operational Levels: 100%._

_Engaging all loaded files._

_Subject "Ghor-1" reactivating at 100% efficiency._

"General Ghor, are you well?" asked a Steamlord, bowing low to the recently reactivated bounty hunter.

Ghor, for his part, could honestly say that he had never felt better in his life. Through the corrupted SkyTown network, Ghor could feel the minds of every machine on the station connected as one, each artificial intelligence from the tiniest Swarmbot to the massive, half-biological security drone Helios located directly at the heart of Elysia's Leviathan speaking with a singular voice, in support of a singular goal.

_Why_ had Ghor resisted this blissful nirvana for so long? The cyborg had only the vaguest of memories of this strangely lengthy period of stubborn obstinacy, and every justification he could still recall now sounded incredibly weak and feeble to his freshly enlightened mind. A reticence toward accepting a power that would sap his free will? Nonsense! Ghor's choices in life had never been more unlimited than they were today, and if he wished to use that freedom to place himself in the service of his new mistress Dark Samus, then that was entirely _his_ prerogative. A distaste for the Space Pirates that he was now in the process of welcoming with open arms? Well, perhaps they weren't the most…amicable of allies, but they were all united in the peace brought forth by the warm embrace of Phazon, and that was all that _really_ mattered.

Over the next centacycle or so, Elysia transformed under the watchful eyes of General Ghor, just as _he_ had been transformed by the blessed touch of the wise and honorable Steamlords. News was arriving daily now – the Hunter, Samus Aran, had arrived upon the world of Bryyo and was now laying waste to the Pirate enclaves located in its dense jungles. Should that blasted hominid succeed in eradicating Rundas and the Bryyonian Leviathan, their own defenses would need to be ready…and Ghor would _not_ disappoint his mistress on the front.

Of course, his preference would merely be to stall Miss Aran, rather than kill her outright – for Ghor felt nothing but pity for the pathetically ignorant female, fighting to defy the natural force of her conversion in precisely the same manner as _he_ so recently had. He would confront her soon, and impart the wisdom he had gained from his fellow emissaries of Phaaze upon her as well…and if she foolishly persisted in her resistance, he would _beat_ the lesson into her.

Entering his armorsuit, to which his enlightened personality and mindset were no longer slave, Ghor of Wotan VII fired up his thrusters and began to survey SkyTown, waiting calmly for the signature orange-and-green of Samus Aran's gunship to arrive over the misty horizon.


	3. Part III: Gandrayda

**Darkness Coming – Gandrayda**

_Disclaimer: In case you haven't figured it out yet, I don't own Metroid Prime 3. All Metroid-related characters, settings, etc. are the intellectual property of Makoto Kano and Nintendo._

[-]

Who exactly _was_ she?

Gandrayda was not the first shapeshifter to ask that question of herself, and certainly would not be the last – regular identity crises simply came with the territory. Changing her form to perfectly mimic another's meant that she was constantly altering her nervous system and brain chemistry to a certain degree, and that tended to take its toll on her mental state in due time.

Purely for example, what was the precise shape of her original nose? Unlike Zebesians or many other species with chameleonic DNA, she did not appear to exhibit any sort of genetic memory, and as such she was forced to rely solely on her own recollections when shifting back to her "normal" form, with…imprecise results. She was well-aware that while her basic appearance had remained constant for most of her life, some of the more minor details of her physiology had simply gotten lost in the shuffle of _hundreds_ of alternate transformations – this point was inevitable, and consequently, acceptable.

But as for her _current_ predicament…well, it lacked precedent, that was for sure.

For nearly a full decacycle now, she'd been hiding in plain sight amongst the Pirates on this Hellish planet of theirs, her Phazon Enhancement Device boosting her natural abilities to a degree that she needed to shift back to her normal form only about a tenth as often as had previously been required. For reconnaissance work this was a particularly useful asset, as it drastically lessened the chance that she would be discovered during her "rest periods," but the side-effects of staying shifted for so much longer than average had been…unanticipated.

For one thing – and perhaps this was merely something hard-wired into the Space Pirate biology that she was copying, but if so that hardly made it any more palatable – Gandrayda was finding it increasingly difficult to disobey or at minimum _question_ the orders handed to her by her superiors, and outright impossible when they came directly from Dark Samus herself.

Dark Samus…if there was one useful thing that she had gleaned from this mission it was information relating to that…creature. It was almost admirable, really – the speed with which she had usurped total command from an established empire of this scale, restructuring all that she saw to fit some heretofore unseen grand vision and cutting down any who attempted to stand in her way. As a leader, in-and-of-itself, it was undeniable: Dark Samus was near-perfect. Commanding, intelligent, cunning, charismatic…

_Beautiful…_

Gandrayda started, one hand flickering out of disguise for a brief moment out of shock. Where had _that_ thought come from?

Well, at least one potential source of the stray musing was obvious – Dark Samus was, of course, visually identical to Samus Aran in virtually every way, and Gandrayda had never exactly been subtle about her physical attraction to the armor-clad bounty hunter. Nor was she in any way ashamed of it; indeed, Gandrayda was damn _proud_ to have had romantic encounters of some nature with over eighteen different species to date, across all possible permutations of gender and race. After all, what was the point of being a shapeshifter if one didn't use the infinite opportunities afforded by such a status to have a _little_ fun?

Still, arousal in relation to _Dark_ Samus? Even by _her_ rather loose standards, such a development was…problematic. Not to mention disgusting. And yet, all the symptoms were present – dilation of pupils, hormone production, inability to concentrate – whenever her mind happened to turn to the subject of the Space Pirates' new leader. Which, it should be noted, was happening with steadily increasing frequency.

But then…maybe she was making a big deal out of nothing here. So what if she had a new crush, albeit a rather sick one? These things happened, and it wasn't like there was any chance she was going to _act_ on those impulses, anyway (after all, did Dark Samus even _have_ the…err, "necessary equipment" under that armor?).

Gandrayda chuckled nervously at the thought, before double-checking her disguise for minor errors and heading back onto the patrol path she'd been assigned.

Her name was Gandrayda. She was a bounty hunter, and she had a mission to do. Nothing else mattered.

[-]

Gandrayda had never been entirely sure _where_ she had come from; her earliest memories were of a care center on a Federation space colony, where she'd lived somewhat briefly before striking out on her own. In the intervening period she'd managed to narrow her potential species of origin to three likely possibilities – Jovian, Diespateri, or Vedios – but any insights beyond that were impractical at best. Most shapeshifting species had dramatic genetic diversity, owing to interbreeding with hundreds of other races all across the galaxy, and so determining precisely _which_ she had originally belonged to was something of a moot point.

In any event, however, it was undeniable that wherever Gandrayda had received her natural abilities, she was damn _good_ with them. Even without the formal training that native shapeshifters tended to receive, she'd been trying out such advanced techniques as transforming into inorganics before she even left adolescence…though more out of boredom than anything else. Her powers made living by her own means not an especially daunting prospect, but in her early years there had been little for her to do _but_ practice with them.

Her first job had been with an escort service – nothing sexual, at least at that age, but the demand for a "companion" able to adjust her appearance precisely to a client's specifications was unsurprisingly high. Said clients had, for the most part, been wealthy-but-aged hominids or Vagynosians, willing to pay exorbitant fees for an hour or two with their "dream girl" hanging off their arm. Too poor and uneducated to support herself any other way at the time, Gandrayda had taken quite well to the task…but it hadn't been one she'd been long for, as things would turn out.

Less than two cycles after she accepted the job, she'd been approached by a couple human representatives of the Galactic Federation; her activities and particular "skills" had apparently reached their ears, probably through any of the dozens of Galactic Senators she had accepted as clients at one time or another, and they in turn had come recruiting. According to the suits, the Federation was prepared to offer her food, lodging, training, and a generous stipend in return for mercenary work…and Gandrayda, not being a moron, had accepted instantly.

As her new "employers" had anticipated, Gandrayda had very soon begun to prove herself a formidable bounty hunter, especially given her comparative inexperience. To some of the Federation higher-ups – the staid and sour-faced military officers whom she tried her damndest to avoid any particular contact with – her natural mastery of disguises, subterfuge, and infiltration was seen as highly impressive, given that it required no financial investment on their part. As such, she'd been moved rather quickly through their training regimen, spending a few decacycles here-and-there in various other programs so as to get a more "well-rounded" array of experience prior to entering the field.

Her favorite of these had been the brief time she'd spent embedded in a Federation Marine training camp, receiving a crash-course in group tactics and recon; principally, perhaps, because it'd been the period of her first real sexual encounter. Sex, both as an abstract idea and as a practical matter, would come to mean quite a lot to Gandrayda, and for her it had all started with one K.G. Misawa, a doe-eyed young soldier with a brain as big as his…well, he'd been quite a satisfactory "first" was the point. The relationship had been casual by necessity, and upon her departure from their unit she'd lost all contact with the man – a shame really, all things considered.

Gandrayda made a mental note to look up his current location once this mission was over with, for if she was ever again in the mood for a hominid male she certainly wouldn't be opposed to giving him another shot…though experience had taught her well that such "notes" had a gross habit of getting away from her.

"I know that look, brother," growled a voice from behind Gandrayda, who jumped briefly before reminding herself that she was still bearing her full Space Pirate camouflage. If the other Pirate noticed anything strange about this, however, then he did not appear to feel the need to mention it. "You are remembering the events of a great past battle, are you not? I can see the lust for our enemies' blood alight within your eyes."

"Oh…yes, yes indeed," Gandrayda agreed, trying to think on her feet to come up with a plausible explanation for the daydreaming expression in which he'd evidently caught her indulging. "I was merely reminiscing over our victories on…on Aether. It was quite glorious."

"But, brother…" the Pirate uttered confusedly, "…you are a militiaman, are you not? We had no Militia-class Pirates involved in the Aether operation…"

In response to this inquiry, the creature received a faceful of Phazon-enhanced blaster fire; he was dead before he struck the ground.

This was not, incidentally, an action that Gandrayda had been consciously considering – the Pirate, after all, had merely been befuddled rather than actively suspicious, and as such killing him was likely to cause more problems than it solved. So where had _that_ trigger-happy impulse bubbled up from?

Unbidden, an image of Dark Samus floating sultrily through the reddish miasma of the Pirate Homeworld appeared within her mind's eye, though Gandrayda pushed it out as suddenly as it had come. Still, she couldn't say her twitching fingers and tighter grip upon her weapon were completely unrelated.

Vaporizing the corpse to eliminate any evidence, Gandrayda proceeded to walk on, attempting to convince herself anew that her mind was making a big deal out of nothing.

It was less effective the second time.

[-]

"_Not a bad run, Misawa. I daresay you should consider adding this to the 'special skills' listed on your resume," Gandrayda panted, sweat running down the form of the nude redhead she'd "borrowed" the form of for tonight. Misawa liked redheads._

"_C'mon Gandrayda…I've told you a hundred times not to call me that," K.G. Misawa admonished, though he was smiling and chuckling lightly as he lay down next to her. "Calling me 'Misawa' makes me think you're talking about my father, and that's…well, that's just pretty damn weird."_

"_But your other name is so _stupid!_" she exclaimed in mock-protest, given him a good-natured shove from under the covers. "They're just a couple human-language letters, and they don't even stand for anything!"_

"_That's only because the Federation mistranslated my records from Earth," he said, now absentmindedly stroking her newly acquired hair. "It's actually supposed to be one word – Keiji. But since our planet's delegation officially operates entirely in English…"_

"_You know what I hear? Blah blah blah, Federation fucked up, blah," Gandrayda scoffed, turning her hand into a miniature puppet of her lover with an over-exaggerated flapping mouth. "But yeah, whatever. You can be 'Keiji' if you want, I guess."_

_Misawa smiled broadly at her, and lowering her perpetual shields for a moment, she smiled back. Then he drew a knife from empty space and stabbed her._

[-]

Gandrayda's eyes snapped open, and after briefly checking that the room around her was empty, swore loudly. That had been a good dream.

Space Pirates, at least those on the low-end of the command structure, did not have chambers of their own – that would imply a level of individuality and self-worth that was utterly alien to their culture. Rather, normal Pirates simply slept standing up, locked in place in the middle of their regular patrol paths for brief periods before resuming normal function without missing a beat…and consequently, so did Gandrayda.

She'd been having a _bit_ of trouble with the whole "resuming normal function" part since arriving on the Homeworld, however.

The dream was always the same, to a degree that it almost lacked any real shock value by now: Gandrayda would think back to a well-remembered lover, share a brief moment of tenderness, and then die. Not that it was a mystery from whence the nightmares came, of course. At _least_ since she'd come to the disturbing realization that she had the hots for Dark Samus, her mind had been slowly devolving into a jumbled-up mess, going in all sorts of random directions at the drop of a hat…and unfortunately, it didn't appear as if her earlier plan of "don't think about it and it'll go away on its own" was proving quite as effective as she'd hoped.

Crises of identity and of purpose, of past and of future, of body and of mind…really, the only thing that had remained consistent was that _something_ would be fucked-up in her head at any given moment, and indeed often more than one. Rapidly shifting between melancholy, bloodlust, mirth, and arousal – all the extremes of her personality, in short – without any rhyme or reason was starting to be all that she could perceive, and without anyone to prank or to fuck (she wasn't particularly picky about which right now) she lacked any of her regular avenues of release.

Was she going mad? The thought had occurred to her multiple times, though each time it'd been summarily dismissed; after all, she wouldn't be able to _ask_ the question in the first place if she really was, right? But then, she wasn't exactly a psychologist…

But even if she wasn't _quite_ in the loony-bin herself at this point, Gandrayda couldn't say for sure that she wasn't headed on that trajectory. And yet…what could she actually _do_ about it?

Well, she reasoned, there was at least _one_ thing that recent events had made profoundly clear: whether or not it was the principle motivator for all this shit, spending all this time in the body of a Space Pirate was not helping her mental state. Emotions of this magnitude simply did not mesh with a species that'd been genetically conditioned to feel no emotion at all, and while Gandrayda's physiology wasn't _completely_ Space Pirate in terms of its nervous system, it was close enough that it could only be compounding the problem.

Briefly, the bounty huntress weighed her options. Currently she was taking the form of a mere grunt, one miniscule cog in an empire that now stretched across planets. The odds of her assumed identity being missed, by superiors or by fellow soldiers, were functionally zero.

And certainly, she had enough data about the Pirates' inner workings to present to the Federation at this point, right? No reason she couldn't take a little "break" as a less…complicated member of the local fauna. Oh, she'd still be observing and cataloguing – perhaps even with a perspective that would provide information she hadn't managed to gather here – but a simpler body meant a simpler mind, and thus a little less of…whatever the Hell this was.

Closing her eyes and concentrating hard on the size and shape of one of the local Shriekbats, Gandrayda's cloaked P.E.D. hummed with energy as her entire body tensed up for the dramatic mass-shift…but for the first time since she was a toddler, the change refused to come.

"What the…?" Gandrayda murmured, her tones soaked with equal parts confusion and severe irritation. Growling low and clicking her pincers, she tried again; this attempt was no more successful than the first. Nor were the third, fourth, or fifth, taken with escalating rapidity as she became more and more frustrated at her sudden incontinence.

Swearing alternatively in eight different languages, the shapeshifter weighed her options for a moment before tapping her chest, muttering as she did, "I can't believe it's come to _this._" True, the Phazon Enhancement Device _did_ assist in making her transformations easier and more long-lasting, but she'd never had to rely on it _completely_ before! Not to do something _this_ fucking simple!

…Gandrayda instantly regretted her haste, however, the moment that the button was pressed and Phazon energy began hurtling throughout her nervous system.

Unlike Rundas or Ghor in the short period where they had trained together in properly using the Device before going out on their separate missions, Gandrayda had never once hesitated to harness its power as necessary – sure, it _was_ largely untested, but what was life without a little risk? Any reluctance to engage it further had been more out of pride than of caution, as she didn't want this foreign energy source to ever develop into a crutch…

But the moment that she inadvertently released about ten times the Federation's "recommended" level of Phazon into her bloodstream, she realized quite vividly that that ship had just sailed.

It wasn't enough that there was pain – though that was certainly a component, wracking every muscle and tendon of her current Space Pirate body excruciatingly and unrelentingly. But the bigger picture was much, _much_ more than that.

Perhaps it was a result of her having maintained the form and mind of their species for so long (certainly she had felt _something_ akin to a hive mind amongst them, though whether it was brought about or merely bolstered by Phazon exposure was as-of-yet unclear), but within the throes of the cool-blue power surging throughout her very being, Gandrayda was somehow seeing _everything._ Space Pirates' hopes and fears, lives and deaths, reactions to positive and negative stimuli on all levels…nothing was hidden from her eyes in that instant. And it was _maddening._

From the tiniest Scritter to the enormous Berserker Knights to Ridley himself, whom she could distantly sense gorging himself on the glowing heart of the Homeworld's Leviathan, it appeared as if every single creature on this forsaken planet that'd ever even _touched_ Phazon was connected through her, simultaneously blinding and deafening her from the surrounding world.

If she realized that her abilities had kicked into full-gear of their own accord and that she was now rapidly shifting between each respective form in turn then she did not show it, instead screaming her head off in dozens of different voices and stumbling about with dozens of different gaits. Subterfuge be damned – she was smashing into walls and knocking objects to the floor left-and-right, avoiding certain detection _only_ because these particular halls were very rarely patrolled by more than one Pirate at a time.

Were she to have the presence of mind to actually concentrate on her present condition, she might've come to the completely correct conclusion that _this_ was the cause of her chaotic mental state, but she was rather too busy shambling about in agony to think about the subject further. Instead she desperately clawed at the P.E.D., blindly trying to shut off all the oppressive "noise" flooding her brain, but if anything she only succeeded in breaching some more of the containment valves and thus making everything _worse._

Eventually, inevitably, Gandrayda collapsed to the floor in her "normal" form, blacking out from the strain almost instantly.

[-]

"_Nice ass, Sammy," Gandrayda commented, gazing approvingly as Samus Aran squirmed out of her Power Suit to reveal a skintight blue bodysuit and flowing blonde hair._

"_Correct me if I am mistaken, but I do believe most hominids would consider that remark highly 'inappropriate,' Gandrayda," said Ghor, scratching his head as his new teammate's brazenness. This was the first time that all four of the Federation's top bounty hunters had been assigned to the same mission – tracking down a Pirate deserter by the name of Weavel – and the various quirks of the three organics were continuing to confound Ghor at the best of times._

"_Oh come now, metalhead…what harm is there in a little flirting?" Gandrayda replied with a smirk. "Especially since it looks like we're all gonna be down here for a while."_

_She was referring, of course, to the landslide which Weavel had triggered in order to waylay them, which had both caused the weak ground of this red-dirt planet to cave in around them as well as pinned Samus' suit under at least two tons of rubble. Fortunately Samus had managed extricate herself from the thing, but without her Gunship she lacked the tools to repair it on-site, meaning that they would have to make due without her arsenal for the time being._

_And given that no one else in their party possessed high explosives, that was something of a problem._

_Samus, for her part, was silently surveying the cave they had all fallen into for another potential escape route, either not hearing or ignoring Gandrayda's comments. Rundas was slightly less serene._

"_Quit it with the immature gawking, rookie," the Phrygisian growled. "Can't you make yourself useful and…I don't know, turn into a bird or something?"_

"_This place is too cramped for anything of sufficient size to actually take flight," she pointed out. "I suppose I could turn into a bug or some-such, then try and go for one of our ships to get help…"_

"_Negative," Ghor interjected, his sensors buzzing frantically. "My databanks indicate that the inhabitants of this planet were brought to extinction by pesticides they introduced into their own atmosphere in order to wipe out an infestation of crop-killing insects. Transforming into an animal any smaller than a Zoomer would very likely prove fatal."_

"_Great…just great…" Rundas grumbled, idly freezing and then crushing a small rock to vent his frustrations. "Samus, you got any ideas?"_

"_Not yet, but I'm working on it," Samus answered vaguely, running a Federation hand-scanner over a section of the rock wall. "We need to be careful about how we do this, or the whole cave could come down on us in an instant. Damn that Pirate…he'll be long-gone by the time we return to the surface."_

"_Why does he hate _you_ so much, anyway?" inquired Gandrayda, slinking her arms over Samus' shoulders and peering down at the scanner's readout. "I got the distinct feeling there was something…personal between the two of you."_

"_Hell if I know," the blonde hominid responded, sliding deftly out of the shapeshifter's hold. "Though if I had to hazard a guess, I'd say that he's one of a million Pirates I blasted to smithereens back on Zebes. The mission info we got from Admiral Dane said he abandoned their command after being rebuilt as a cyborg and severely demoted, so that'd give a plausible motive for revenge. Not that it matters, of course, seeing as I'll probably never see him again."_

"_Out of curiosity, what does…'Hell' mean?" Rundas couldn't help but ask. "My translator module isn't giving me an equivalent."_

"_At this point in history, it's just a word for oaths; an intensifier," Samus explained shortly. "But it originally comes from an Earth religion."_

"_Hey, I had a boyfriend from Earth once!" piped up Gandrayda, again attempting to perch an elbow on Samus' shoulder. "Didn't really work out after the academy, though…now, I think he's in one of those elite marine platoons. Last I checked, he got hired by some newly promoted commander…Adam something-or-another…"_

_That Samus Aran stopped in her tracks and sucked in a deep breath at these words did not escape notice, but in any event she did not explain herself, so Rundas instead quipped, "'Boyfriend,' eh rookie? And here I was under the impression that you played for the…other team." He followed this with a pointed glance at Gandrayda's fingers, which were lightly kneading the base of Samus' neck; still stunned for unknown reasons, the blonde Hunter hadn't yet thrown her off again._

"_It's perfectly possible to play for _both_ teams, ice-cube," Gandrayda retorted with a wink. "Speaking of which…I've never had a Phrygisian before. How's your kind in the sack, if you don't mind me asking?"_

_From the look on Rundas' face, he very much _did_ mind, but Gandrayda was saved from what would surely have been some rather angry words by Ghor, who at that moment ended his momentary silence in an effort to bring the conversation back to topic. "If I might make a suggestion," he stated, "I am currently equipped with a Grade-IV Plasma Beam, designed for targeted combat strikes and the repair of sensitive machinery. Perhaps I could use it to carefully cut out an escape route?"_

"_Based on the readings I'm getting, that wouldn't work for this kind of rock," Samus told him, the hard, clinical facts of the subject apparently enough to shake her out of her brief stupor. "But perhaps if both and you Rundas…"_

Gandrayda didn't get to hear the rest of the human woman's plan, however, because in that moment her voice began to grow increasingly distant and distorted, the scenery and the other two bounty hunters melting away to leave only herself…and Samus Aran.

[-]

When Gandrayda's eyes snapped open once more, she was only mildly surprised that the image of Samus' soft face had not dissipated with the dream. Then she did a double-take when she began to recognize a number of rather disturbing differences in her features – including a range of bluish scars and blemishes, a flat nose that lacked distinctive nostrils, and a pair of "eyes" that would be better described as solid chunks of Phazon embedded haphazardly into a human skull. The sum total of the picture added up to probably the most unsettling thing Gandrayda had ever seen.

"Pirate Militia C-827…or should I say, Bounty Huntress Gandrayda," she spoke, her voice not entirely unlike the sound of metal screeching upon metal.

…And immediately, the shapeshifter realized who this truly was.

"You have done well to avoid detection for so very long," Dark Samus continued, running a mutated hand across Gandrayda's P.E.D. It released an enormous spike of energy at her touch. "Of course, I knew who you were from the very moment you made planetfall. I never forget _any_ of my children."

Struggling frantically at these hoarse and guttural words, Gandrayda soon realized that she was currently strapped to a wall via Phazon tentacles; indeed, it almost appeared to be that the entire _room_ was made of semi-solid Phazon, pulsing rhythmically as if breathing.

"'Children'? But I'm not…" she grunted, though the helmetless Dark Samus merely curled her pale-blue lips in apparent amusement.

"Indeed, you have a rather…_different_ conception of my glorious self, don't you?" she whispered sultrily, now running her hand down Gandrayda's body and letting it rest upon her pelvis. The young shapeshifter shuddered at the contact.

"Do not lie to me," she went on, cutting across Gandrayda before she could protest the implication. "Not one single thought that passes through your mind is hidden from my sight, child. I know that you want me."

Softly, the creature began to rub her palm up and down its current position, and Gandrayda shuddered again, this time much more violently. Dark Samus stopped after only a few seconds of this, however, instead leaning forward until her face was almost touching Gandrayda's and murmuring, "Do not worry – I shall not be enacting what you simultaneously fear and yet so _desperately_ crave. Not until you beg for it. _Beg_ me for corruption, my child…beg me and it shall be yours."

"I…I…" Gandrayda choked out uncertainly, but those were the only words she had the time to utter before Dark Samus pressed her lips forcefully against her own, and everything blurred out of focus.

The next few hours passed in a druglike haze. Gandrayda vaguely remembered the facsimile of Samus Aran releasing her from the tentacles and leading her to a bed of Phazon ore. She remembered mumbling feeble protests that turned into ecstatic, rapturous pleadings the instant she was caressed by the gorgeous creature. She remembered Dark Samus whispering something to her chest as she gently kissed it, the Phazon in the P.E.D. liberating itself immediately afterward and enveloping her in the full embrace of its warm, cerulean glow.

She remembered taking the forms of a Pirate, Rundas, Ghor, and Samus Aran in turn and doing…_things_ with the domineering female…

Looking back upon it in the future, Mistress Gandrayda would've been hard-pressed to determine whether the experience she recalled so vividly had actually occurred, or if it had merely been an elaborate metaphor her mind had erected to represent her blissful yielding to the inviting radiance of Phazon. Certainly, Dark Samus never acknowledged their "encounter" when she worked up the courage to ask her about it, but nor did the glorious leader deny it…so Gandrayda supposed it would have to remain a mystery.

After all, what did it matter, really? She had everything she could possibly need right here – in a world that finally, _finally_ made sense again.

[-]

The transformation of the bounty hunter Gandrayda into Mistress Gandrayda, Head General of the Space Pirate armada, had been nearly instantaneous…but that didn't mean it'd been completely neat-and-tidy, either.

For one thing, there had been the matter of communications with the Federation. Gandrayda had been eager to preach her recent conversion to the "unenlightened" organization, so that they might know the fear and anguish that would very soon be upon their heads, but Dark Samus had been quick to remind her that blithely spreading such information could well do more harm than good. So at her mistress' behest the shapeshifter had simply ceased making transmissions _at all;_ with any luck, her former employers would believe her position to be compromised and their cover blown, and thus would hesitate to involve themselves further for the near future.

At the current stage of their operations, after all, the near future was all they really _needed._

There were also a great number of rather more…trifling matters to settle. Gandrayda had been distressed to learn, as her mind gradually melded closer and closer with that of her beloved mistress, that there were a great number of memories and emotions alight within her subconscious that were wholly incompatible – even heretical! – to the wondrous vision of Phaaze.

Fortunately, Dark Samus had graciously agreed to "help" her with that problem in their spare moments, psychically siphoning away those bonds and attachments that pulled her attentions to anywhere but the present mission and discarding them into the void…where they belonged. Gandrayda had never considered herself a particularly religious individual – and indeed, that was probably an _understatement_ at most times – but the euphoria she felt as the oppressive remembrances of past friends, allies, and lovers were lifted away from her defied any description except that of true divinity.

…The difference here being, of course, that Gandrayda could _see_ the glorious Goddess who grant her absolution; see her, speak to her, and even embrace her as much as was possible without risking impertinence.

The only snag in the process had come about at its very end, as she tried her utmost but ultimately failed to relinquish her last lingering attachment: her affections for Samus Aran. On this night, after what felt like a veritable eternity of straining her mind to rid itself of the accursed attraction, Gandrayda had finally collapsed to her knees and prostrated herself before Dark Samus, pleading forgiveness. "I…I am weak, mistress," she sobbed, her concentration on the human bounty hunter so intense that her face briefly flickered to match hers. "This silly, pathetic crush had proven impossible to eradicate. Truly, I am unworthy to serve by your side."

"We are all sinners, my child," Dark Samus intoned after a short pause, not looking directly at the weeping shapeshifter. "To expect perfection in mind, body, _and_ soul is unreasonable for any creature…other than myself, of course. Only once Phaaze has extended its bounty across the entire Universe, and all life has become one within its glow, shall such a widespread perfection be reached. But until then, you have my permission to indulge your…'crush.' So long as it does not affect the tenor of your loyalties, I deem it harmless."

"R…Really?" breathed Gandrayda incredulously. When Dark Samus nodded in response, the shapeshifter became far more enthusiastic and heartened, exclaiming, "Then I won't disappoint your trust and confidence any further, mistress! I promise you, I shall be the one to present you with the bloody helmet of Samus Aran! She, and the rest of the world, shall know the true power and glory of Phazon, by my hand!"

"That…is all I ask of you," Dark Samus crooned, as if to a pet, idly stroking her greatest servant's cheek in reward for her zeal.

Gandrayda smiled broadly at the contact from her savior. Things were exactly as they should be.

Her name was Mistress Gandrayda. She was a general of the Space Pirates, and she had a mission to do. Nothing else mattered.


	4. Part IV: Samus Aran

**Darkness Coming – Samus Aran**

_Disclaimer: In case you haven't figured it out yet, I don't own Metroid Prime 3. All Metroid-related characters, settings, etc. are the intellectual property of Makoto Kano and Nintendo._

[-]

"_Don't you feel the power? Soon, everything will be corrupted…including you!"_

The words burrowed into Samus Aran's mind like a crawling insect, particularly as repeated scans of her trusted gunship met only with…

**Gunship no longer identifies you as Samus due to near total corruption. Access to ship is not permitted.**

She'd known there would be risks coming to Phaaze. If she hadn't realized it back when her first Hyper Mode overload nearly killed her on Bryyo, then surely when she'd inadvertently absorbed the Mogenar's entire Phazon reserves and been driven to vomit up _blue_…

But the very real toll this Phazon Enhancement Device was taking on both her physical body and her psyche had been largely put to the side in her mental prioritization…true to form, she supposed. A part of her – the most human part biologically speaking, ironically enough – would always be that of a military woman, and that meant constant and reinforced conditioning to submerge all factors that were not directly conducive to the mission.

The P.E.D. was an invaluable tool in this struggle to rid the Universe of Dark Samus once and for all…and so if it killed her as a side-effect, that was an acceptable loss by definition.

That being said, she was trying very, very hard not to look at the reflection in her visor. "Vain" was the _last_ word anyone would ever use to describe Samus Aran; yes, she was perfectly aware that she had a pretty face and an attractive figure, but the former was purely incidental (it wasn't like she put any effort into it…she'd just received a lucky draw from the gene pool) and the latter was nothing more than a side-effect of constant exertion up to and beyond her physical limits.

When she stopped in at a bar after a successful bounty (gin and tonic, neat), with her hair down and her casual clothing revealing a healthy amount of skin, she knew she attracted a fair amount of stares. This neither pleased nor bothered her; it just was something that happened, and in the fairly likely event that an injury would permanently disfigure her someday and it never happened again, she certainly wouldn't miss it.

But what she did miss? Looking _human._

It'd been gradual, which was the problem – until her ship had registered her as lacking enough human DNA to even be _identified_ as Samus Aran, she'd scarcely noticed the changes at all. After Bryyo it'd been a darkening of some of her blood vessels, a slight metallic sheen in her right eye; after Elysia, more vessels and a matching effect in her left eye as well. But after the Pirate Homeworld, the effects had eventually grown so pronounced that her very _skin_ appeared a sickly, greenish-blue…and that was really the least of it.

Even if the atmosphere here wasn't so obviously toxic, she knew she simply couldn't stand to remove her helmet until this mission was complete – not because of what she'd seen of her warped visage, but because of what she _hadn't._ The shape of her nose, she knew, was just a little bit _off_ in a way she couldn't quite describe in rational terms; the same could be said of her cheekbones and brow. And the less said about the current "state" of her eyes…the better.

But she couldn't see her hands or feet, her chest, or…_other_ body parts slightly lower on her torso, and she really and truly didn't want to. Absent the ability to check, a part of her could always fool itself into believing that there was really nothing wrong, and that she'd escape this living planet without a single lingering mark and be able to just _forget_…

It was a lie – she knew that. But she wasn't going to acknowledge it as such until absolutely forced to.

Still, while she could willfully ignore the changes in her _body_ so long as she remained in this warped version of her Power Suit, her mental state was a different story entirely. The whispers had been low and infrequent on Bryyo and Elysia, but since vanquishing that grotesque "Omega Ridley" (hopefully, once and for all…but when it came to Ridley, she could never be too sure) they'd been a near-constant presence in the corners of her mind.

It was her own voice that now so often echoed across her brain…in a manner of speaking, at least. Her voice was not typically that low-pitched, nor that slow and deliberate. She didn't elongate her vowels the way the whispers always did, and her "s" sounds didn't come out as lengthy hisses.

And she certainly wasn't familiar with the tinge upon this reproduction of her voice which was so – for lack of a better term – _sultry._ She had _never_ in her life spoken in a manner which most would describe as "alluring," and yet here it was, constantly blaring in her skull – her own distinctive tones, talking as if to a lover or other intimate relation. It was an…unnerving experience.

Beyond that it was _her_ voice, the most she could say about the whispers was that they seemed the work of a non-native speaker…not with regard simply to English, but to spoken language in general. The pronunciation was uneven and jarring, interspersed with strange sucking and clicking noises in a way and to a degree that Samus wasn't familiar with in any alien tongue. And considering she was fluent in eight languages and had limited proficiency in twenty-three others…she felt she wasn't stretching too much to say that these were decidedly strange speech patterns.

The whispers said many things. Mostly they tried to undermine Samus' confidence – assure her that her mission would end in failure, that the Federation would be crushed in the face of Phaaze's boundless might, and so forth.

While this line of argument had had little effect on her initially, Samus was forced to admit that it'd struck far closer to home whenever it brought up her previous failures as examples. And through the wonderful "gift" of a near-eidetic memory, whenever the whispers saw fit to cite one of the numerous times she'd proved helpless at saving someone she cared about, the scene tended to play straight across her mind's eye, in vibrant detail.

She saw the raid on K-2L; her father detonating himself to prevent the Space Pirates from escaping with the Afloraltite they'd massacred the colony to steal, her mother being cooked to a crisp right before her eyes and then savagely devoured by her killer, her corpse desecrated to fuel Lord Ridley's nauseating method of flesh regeneration.

She saw Gray Voice impaled with the Pirate general's tail as he made his last stand against the treacherous Mother Brain; the rest of the Chozo being slaughtered by their own creations or scattered to the stars as their own homeworld was overrun with the Pirate armadas. Her old comrades, Commander Mauk and Staff Lieutenant Kreatz, braving waves of Pirate warships to aid her on Zebes…and reported missing in action hours later.

And that wasn't even mentioning all those numerous souls whose names she would never learn – scores of Federation police and soldiers, Luminoth sentinels, Bryyonians seized by the throes of madness and Elysians robbed of their miraculous sapience – and who she had always, invariably, arrived far too late to help.

But what cut through her heart most of all were the most recent images to course through her mind: Rundas impaled on a pike of his own ice, although whether as a result of misaiming or a last-ditch effort to salvage what was left of himself, she could never and _would_ never be sure; Ghor's systems melting down to a gruesome death, both electronic and organic; Gandrayda screaming in pain as she shifted through each of these shapes in her death throes and so many others…including _her_ very own face and _her_ very own hand, reaching – perhaps, for Samus could do no more than speculate – for a salvation that would never come…

The voice's murmurings got to her, though she told herself quite firmly that they did not, because when she imagined herself dying as they had she could no longer reject the image outright.

For how was she so different from them, _really?_ She used Hyper Mode extremely readily now, transforming a few dozen units of energy into a couple of well-placed shots and venting the rest so frequently that she had stopped bothering to keep track. Hyper Ball to clear obstructions, Hyper Missile to finish off the armor of stubborn foes, Hyper Grapple to feed this poison into other beings and splatter them across the floor…

Alright, at least that description still disgusted her. That was something.

But she still did it. Wild beasts and automatons and Pirates alike…each fell to the burning, corrosive power of her Arm Cannon, blown to fiery pieces or left to collapse upon the ground, their skin burned off and their inner organs toppling out.

She was, of course, no stranger to killing; she'd been doing it since she was a young girl and she was confident she'd be doing it until her dying day. She was a Chozo Warrior, and proud.

Nonetheless, she'd always made the effort to be…clinical, perhaps was the best word. There _were_ exceptions, mainly centered around the Space Pirates (Ridley in particular could _never_ suffer a painful enough demise, so far as she was concerned), but generally she tried to make her kills short and to-the-point. She had no interest in prolonging the suffering of other living things.

But since she'd gotten this P.E.D. – since she'd discovered the sheer _power_ of Hyper Mode, and the ease at which she could use and abuse it – she'd gradually felt herself slipping. She wanted to _hurt_ enemies whom she'd never met before, as if they had committed some unspeakable atrocity to earn her wrath.

And as for the enemies for whom that description _did_ apply, her thoughts were turning outright genocidal. She knew how to construct a thermonuclear bomb, now, _and_ she knew precisely where the Pirate Homeworld was currently located. It would be so simple…

Except ease was precisely the _reason_ she didn't do thinks like that, she tried to tell herself. Vengeance was a foreign concept to the Chozo culture; one could rise to defend against an incurring enemy or make an active attack on purely practical grounds, but there was no passion or emotion in it. So if she intended to honor everything they stood for, her dealings with the Pirates needed to follow the same pattern.

Of course, this was never going to work entirely: despite her Chozo blood (and the more…recent alterations) she was human at her heart, and had the passions of one. But the _drive_ to do so, that nagging reminder of the heritage that'd invested its last cycles in raising her to perfection, still functioned as a restraint – to a degree, at least. If there had been _any_ voice in her head apart from her own prior to these last few days, it was one that strongly approximated Old Bird's, cautioning her darkest impulses from straddling the path of self-destruction.

But she didn't hear that voice anymore. It was just the whispering, _always_ the whispering, and every time she told herself it wasn't getting to her she believed it less.

So when it came down to all of this, _was_ she the human Samus Aran anymore?

At this point…she just couldn't say.

[-]

_Surrender, Samus Aran. Surrender and you will be spared. Surrender and there will be no limits to your power. Surrender…and you will be free._

"Perhaps that'd be more persuasive if you weren't currently trying to kill me," Samus murmured under her breath as she dodged a burst of her dark counterpart's Phazon Beam.

To have confirmation of the source of the whispers plaguing her mind was not altogether surprising; it wasn't like she'd had any other suspects, after all.

On the other hand, being in such close proximity to Dark Samus seemed to have exacerbated the effects significantly. She'd initially hoped that once combat commenced between them, her doppelganger would be distracted enough to shut the Hell up…but on the contrary, the whispers had instead magnified tenfold in volume, to the point where Samus could barely aim straight for the sheer _noise._

She'd trained to block this sort of thing out – with the Chozo, in the Federation Police, and just as a necessary skill for going solo in a career field like this – but there was always some level of a divide between practice and reality, and even she had her limits.

At just the right moment, Dark Samus would cackle, or shout, or make a bloodcurdling screech harkening back to her roots as a Metroid…and Samus would miss her shot by inches, or else be grazed by an attack she really should've been able to dodge in time.

If nothing else, she had to admit the creature was damn good at taking advantage of this – and the worst part was, it was a strictly one-way factor. Purely experimentally, she'd tried "sending" the most distressing images and sounds she could imagine at critical moments, but either Dark Samus was utterly indifferent to such horrors or else their "connection" simply didn't work that way.

Samus couldn't quite be sure which, and she didn't really have the time to think it through while under constant fire.

Still, she was not _utterly_ without assets in this fight…though unfortunately, the majority of them could be traced directly back to the poison pumping throughout her veins.

She recalled how her old Phazon Suit's approximation of the Hyper Beam had been the only weapon capable of hurting the core form of the Metroid Prime, and furthermore how tiny Phazon particles absorbed into her Power Beam had allowed it to pass through her doppelganger's shields during their final duel on Dark Aether.

And indeed, Phazon weapons appeared to be the only thing doing any _real_ damage to Dark Samus' barriers now – the Hyper Missile to clear away her immediate defenses, and the Hyper Beam to chip away at the monster that lay beneath them. Her double moved rather too rapidly for the Ball or Grapple to be of much use, but she could only assume they'd be similarly effective given the opportunity.

So in a way, she was caught in something of a conundrum; in order to strike back at Dark Samus she needed to give into the now nearly all-consuming corruption even further, but doing so invariably opened up more of her mind to the creature, allowing it to thwart many of those strikes with ease.

And with the sheer degree to which she was now being _bombarded_ with the disjointed, inhuman whisperings of her dark counterpart, she wasn't sure how much longer she was going to be able to take that trade-off without going completely insane. Not that she could be 100% sure she hadn't done so already, of course.

…And the fact that she'd just had that thought sort of scared the shit out of her.

_You know that you cannot win, Samus Aran. Hunter Rundas, Hunter Ghor, Mistress Gandrayda…all fell to my corruption, and all were slaughtered by your hand. You have seen your fate. You have seen the _Universe's_ fate._

_It is inevitable._

Samus' mind roared in fury at this latest exhortation of futility, and for one brief moment, she saw blue.

Then, when her vision cleared, she saw that she had let loose a massive charged shot directly into Dark Samus' heart. And with a final mental screech, the creature flew back and sank to its knees, all indicators of its vital signs disappearing from her heads-up display.

Samus aimed her Arm Cannon to take the final shot against her foe, and several silent moments passed as her Hyper Beam charged to full strength…but all thoughts of delivering the kill shot, of even fighting back, were driven from her mind an instant later as a new voice, a thousand times more horrific than Dark Samus', assailed her worn-down psyche…

**Sᴛɪʟʟ...ɴᴇss...**

**Aʟʟ...**

**Sʜᴀʟʟ ʙᴇ...**

**Sᴛɪʟʟ...**

This voice was rough and mechanical, and might've been masculine at one point or another, but dripping from every word was such infinite pain and anguish that any life that might've lingered within it had died an agonizing death an eternity ago.

Still, _traces_ within the voice were familiar, and it took Samus several moments to realize why: this had been the deep, defeated-sounding voice which had spoken to her aboard the G.F.S. Valhalla, the Aurora Unit giving its last testament as the Pirates wrenched it from its home.

Describing it all with those last, terrible words, spoken with as close to fear as Samus had ever heard a machine approximate…

**Dᴀʀᴋɴᴇss...ᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ...**

And a moment later, Samus knew precisely what'd happened to Aurora Unit 313 afterward, and why she was hearing this garbled version of its voice _now,_ of all times…

For rising out of the core of Phaaze, directly behind Dark Samus, was the master of the living planet's network of corruption, itself saturated in every inch with the darkness it had once so dreaded.

Samus Aran just looked on as her nearly defeated double leapt upward and sank straight into the biological supercomputer…and for the first time in hours, her mind was free of the whispering.

But as the Aurora Unit roared to life and began to activate its numerous defensive systems, she found that this did not come without a price. The machine's mental signals, coursing through every particle of Phazon in her body like electricity surging through a circuit, were not quite as intentionally distracting or demoralizing as Dark Samus' had been…but they were also _louder_ in a very real sense, overpowering all of her mental faculties whenever it spoke in those deep, lumbering, _sorrowful_ tones…

By instinct Samus dodged a concentrated particle beam, her mind racing as she realized what she'd just said.

Because while Dark Samus now appeared to be controlling the machine's every action, firing weapon after deadly weapon with a vindictive fury that would no longer be restrained, the direct connection that their mutual corruption enabled meant Samus was now feeling a very _different_ sensation emanating from the supercomputer beneath.

It was faint, but strong: an overwhelming cry of despair, the kind that comes from having nothing left to lose and no hope of anything to gain. It was the cry of a prisoner awaiting the distant prospect of execution; of a starving child on some desert planet, slowly wasting away to nothing.

It was the cry of Aurora Unit 313, begging to die.

Was this how the other hunters had felt prior to the moments where she'd been forced to kill them? This unyielding, relentless, all-encompassing agony of the mind and soul?

In some ways, had she in fact done them something of a mercy in ending their lives? Or was that just her guilty conscience trying to justify her latest, greatest failures retroactively?

And whether it was the former or the latter that was truly accurate…what did that say about _her?_

"Don't go down that road again…" she whispered to herself, as she struck a robotic appendage extending from the Aurora Unit with a well-placed charge shot. "Stop overthinking this…just complete the mission…"

This was, of course, easier said than done. But nonetheless, it was perhaps the only workable avenue of thought left available to her now.

She knew that there was so much more going on here than simply barreling on through and slaying this final obstacle. Her own mind, and her own body – corrupted, probably past the point of no return – were plain proof. The only reason she could "hear" what was going on in this mangled machine's thought patterns, or those of any other creature on this planet for that matter, was because the corruption was so pervasive it was no longer clear where the Phazon ended and where the human Samus Aran began.

But if Dark Samus wanted her to focus on these facts…perhaps that was reason enough to ignore them. She was deluding herself, she acknowledged that readily, but maybe that wasn't _such_ a negative thing. Better to go down swinging for an ideal, even if she wasn't entirely sure she embodied that ideal anymore. Or that she ever would again.

None of that mattered now, she told herself. She was Samus Aran, bounty hunter. Chozo Warrior. Human, in body and in soul.

She shook her head…and let the rest go.

All her preoccupations upon the damage this poison had done to her physical form, and to the very currents of her mind – she released them.

The lingering guilt for mistakes uncountable which Dark Samus had been dragging across her brain like some sick parade for the past few hours – she released it.

All of her pontificating about what'd gone through the minds of Rundas, Ghor, and Gandrayda before she took their lives, and the frightening implications that held for her own near fate – all of it, she released.

There was nothing but a hopelessly corrupted, endlessly tortured soul standing before her, begging for something – _anything_ – to put it out of its unimaginable misery.

And it was her job to free it.

She would free it from this darkness. She would free the _Universe_ from this darkness.

That was all that mattered.

[-]

If she kept a companion on her lone treks across the stars – something she had sworn quite emphatically never to do – they might now be asking why she insisted on removing her Power Suit after every successful mission, if only just for a few moments. Considering how badly the habit had bitten her in the ass on Zebes, it was probably a fair question.

Staring out onto the Elysian horizon in her Zero Suit, Samus Aran glanced at her palm for a moment, flexing her fingers experimentally.

She needed this reminder, sometimes, that she was more than just the suit. Today more than ever. Going out in casual wear in-between jobs didn't count; there she blended into the crowd, just another human doing nothing in a sea of other humans doing nothing. That was important to her in its own way, she supposed, but it wasn't the same as taking a breather after a hard-fought battle and just _being_ Samus Aran.

Which was, undoubtedly, who she was now: miraculously the destruction of Phaaze had seemed to wipe out every trace of Phazon in existence, including that which saturated her own living cells. She'd had her gunship run ten consecutive biohazard scans, just to be absolutely sure, and the results were clear…only the blood of humanity and the Chozo now flowed through her veins.

She was free of the whispers, and the sickening blue lesions, and all the other attendant symptoms of that horrific substance – that horrific _creature,_ she corrected herself with a brief shiver. But nevertheless…she still wasn't at peace.

As she gazed out upon Elysia's radiant sun, their faces flashed across her mind's eye with greater insistence than Dark Samus' sinister murmurings ever had.

Rundas, the ruthlessly efficient scion of Phrygis…and savior of more lives than she could even begin to count, including her own.

Ghor, the Wotani engineer…forced by circumstances to become a warrior of steel, but always underneath a gentle soul who cared that the galaxy be richer in knowledge by the time he left it.

Gandrayda, the shapeshifter without an origin…flitting about from one place to another in hopes that her life might be granted meaning, and in the meantime making a great statement of enjoying what existence had to offer for those willing to seek it.

And even Aurora Unit 313 – a stranger in all contexts but the one that most mattered – the machine with a soul who'd been the first casualty in a war that threatened life itself.

All five of them had been subjected to the same experiences…but Samus Aran alone had survived.

She was lucky, really. There were so many points when she'd found herself either unwittingly entering or being forced into Phazon Overload, saved from terminal corruption only by firing madly in all directions until her tanks were sufficiently vented. A few more seconds, a single mistake, and…she didn't want to think about it.

They'd given their lives so that fate might smile on hers; so that all those close calls would be exactly that, and nothing more.

She wouldn't waste their sacrifice. She wouldn't waste _any_ of the sacrifices that had brought her to this day. Somewhat damaged by the experience, perhaps…but in fit condition for the next great battle.

For now, that would suffice.

For the last time in her life, Samus Aran turned her back upon the hazy skies of Elysia and entered her gunship, before opening a secure channel to Galactic Federation headquarters.

"This is Samus Aran, freelance bounty hunter," she said, with more conviction in those well-practiced words than she'd uttered in years.

"I'm ready for my next mission."


End file.
